"Damian!"

"Damian, wait—please!"

Savannah and Annabelle's voices called out, one after the other, as they hurried to catch up to him.

They cut him off, stepping directly into his path.

"Damian, you're not seriously going after that woman, are you?" Savannah demanded in disbelief.

Damian's brow furrowed. "Savannah, where are your manners?"

"Damian, don't be angry with her. She's still young; she doesn't know any better." Annabelle's voice was soft and placating. "If you still have feelings for Eleanor, just tell me. I won't force myself on you. I can leave right now."

Her eyes reddened, and looking utterly betrayed, she turned to walk away.

"Annabelle!" Damian moved quickly, catching her hand. "It's not what you think. There's nothing going on between me and Eleanor. Don't misunderstand."

"Damian, be honest with me. Is she still in your heart? It's... it's okay. I'll accept it." Her voice trembled, thick with unshed tears.

Seeing her so hurt made Damian's heart ache. "You're overthinking things. If she wants to humiliate herself in public, that's her business. It has nothing to do with me."

"Maybe she has her reasons for dressing like that. Perhaps we should go help her," Annabelle said, her tone thoughtful and considerate—the very picture of wounded grace.

A wave of affection washed over Damian. "Annabelle, you're just too kind. There's no need to worry about her. I've given her more than enough to live comfortably for the rest of her life. If she's chosen to debase herself for a cheap thrill, that's on her."

"But..." Annabelle seemed about to say more, but she suddenly swayed and crumpled backward.

Damian's face went pale. He caught her immediately, holding her tightly as his voice rose in panic. "Annabelle!"

"I... I'm fine. It's just too loud in here. My head's spinning. Let's go back to the private room." She slumped against him, a dead weight in his arms.

"I told you to rest at the hospital for a couple of days, but you had to be stubborn," he murmured, his tone a mix of worry and adoration.

He turned to his sister. "Take her to the room first. I'm going to the restroom. I'll be right back."

"You're not sneaking off to see Eleanor, are you?" Savannah guessed, her eyes narrowing.

Before Damian could reply, Annabelle spoke up. "Savannah, it's alright. Eleanor's clearly lost right now. It's only right that Damian goes to reason with her. Stop her from this... self-destruction. After all, she's still his ex-wife. If word of this gets out, it would be a public embarrassment for the entire family."

"Annabelle, you're too good. You're still defending that wh—" She swallowed the word, glancing nervously at Damian, who was already glaring at her.

"Just hurry back, Damian. Annabelle still hasn't fully recovered. If something goes wrong, that'll be on you, not me!"

With that, she took Annabelle's arm. "Come on, let's go."

...

In the restroom hallway.

Eleanor stepped out, running a hand through her loose waves. As she moved, men throughout the bar stopped to watch her, their conversations faltering as their eyes followed her every step.

Damian watched them, his jaw tight. Their gazes held the same raw, predatory hunger, as if each one wanted to own her.

"Eleanor!" he barked, his irritation spiking.

Her eyes landed on him. She gave him a slow, deliberate once-over, and a cold smirk touched her lips as she arched an eyebrow. "What do you want, ex-husband?"

Her tone was so light, so dismissive, that his chest tightened.

Something twisted deep in his gut.

He strode forward and seized her slender wrist. "Outside. Now."